


Trembling Hands

by ianavi



Series: Abandoned Tea Cups [2]
Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternative Universe - Sherlock's not a detective, Anxiety, Comfort, Domestic Bliss, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Happy Ending, Love, M/M, Scars, Sleeping Together, Tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3641463">Kneeling</a>. A way to get back to writing after a few months of silence. Prompted by an unbelievably loyal and patient reader. Don't expect too much, wondering myself if this will develop further...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AugustaAugustus18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaAugustus18/gifts).



He knew it was an irrational fear. And he couldn't shake it off. It was time to deal with this.

It was highly unlikely that John, who had seen it all the very first time they met as doctor and patient, and had not blinked, who'd passionately touched and kissed his skin numerous times, would now take one look at him naked and leave. And still, he felt ill just thinking of it. His hand rose to touch his chest... and with a jerk he pulled it down to his side, fist tightly closed.

It was a recurring fantasy he indulged in again and again. Unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall off his shoulders as John watched. Walking out of the shower naked on a weekend morning. Stripping off his pyjamas as John kissed his lips, neck, chest.

No, not his chest. The ugly miserable scars there. Impossible.

He couldn't reconcile pleasant memories of past events together with his fear.

Three months since John moved in. And with him, of course, George the cat and John's vinyl record collection and his pile of mismatched "but they're all black it doesn't matter" socks. He'd mixed the socks with his own neatly folded ones. And had worn them, too.

They'd settled into a very comfortable domesticity together quickly. Something Sherlock had not envisioned for himself, something that had surpassed any of his expectations for them.

And they were so different in their day to day habits.

If he looked about the room around him traces of John were everywhere. A small smile allowed him distance from dark thoughts.

He liked John leaving empty tea cups strewn about the flat. The kitchen counter, bedside table, floor next to the sofa. Sherlock would never move them and once in a while John would wrangle them all in into the dishwasher in the evening apologizing profusely for being "such a pig". It was silly but they reminded him John was now living here, was about to open the door and return home for the evening.

He gazed at the tea cup on the edge of the fireplace. It had been there since Wednesday evening. Good.

With a sigh he settled back into his chair with a journal, scribbling notes into the margin and humming in tune with the classical music radio program. Best focus on his task and wrap it up in time. John would be home in an hour or less and he'd already had everything baking for dinner. Friday and a whole two days of no work, no obligations and distractions outside the two of them. He ignored the hand on his chest, fingertips gently pressing the cotton fabric of his shirt as he read, as if it was not his own.

Every time he felt a bit unnerved he glanced at the abandoned tea cup and it settled him. Yes, it was definitely time to deal with this. He was an adult in a lively sexual relationship with a man who was caring and patient, as well as passionate. And who had seen him fully naked on just three brief occasions.

Just weeks after John moved in the night light was switched off. Quite unceremoniously in the end. John had come in from a late shift, exhausted and freezing. He'd flipped the switch as he crawled under the duvet probably unaware of the action, bringing both his arms around Sherlock's waist and kissing into his curls with a muffled apology for being so late. And Sherlock found he did not mind. Did not mind being woken. Did not mind the sudden darkness. It was so easy to fall asleep held tightly by this man.

Of course, not all of his established routines fell away as easily. 

He found it necessary to stick to his established meal schedule as most workdays John either ate in the hospital canteen or came in late to raid the fridge for any of Sherlock's leftovers. They made an effort on the weekends to cook and eat all meals together. John had baked fruit tarts and "the famous Watson recipe" shortbread cookies on several occasions. But Sherlock was the one who remembered to buy milk for their tea.

Many evenings were spent just reading together. Sherlock with a journal, John with a paperback. There had been several discussions about unpacking John's television again, even though its first installation had unnerved Sherlock. Cinema visits were a regular date night.

Some nights were interrupted with nightmares.

Still, it was all fine. Far, far better than fine.

And he was still unable to keep his damn shirt off in front of the man, to sleep naked with him, to bathe together. And he longed for it.

The door swung open and Sherlock happily took in the wet-umbrella-shaking John.

"Hey, love, so good to be in from the cold. It's looking like snow out there, I am not joking".

Kicking off his shoes and leaving his bag and jacket on the edge of the sofa John walked up to him and leaned down for a kiss. His lips were cold and Sherlock felt the brush of his stubble. He pressed up into the kiss and brought his hands up to push them under John's cardigan.

That word. It reappeared daily.

Love.

Sherlock had yet to wrap his lips around that word but for a while now John had been using it with an ease only he carried about him. No pomp, no declarations, it was just there. Scattered about their days like the cups around the flat.

"Hungry?"

John leaned back to look at him brushing his cheek with a thumb. "Hm, starving. Only managed a sandwich at lunch."

Sherlock had baked a spinach and feta filo pie. Well, the filo dough was defrosted but still. But it was warm and served with a large green salad.

John ate with his fingers, biting into a slice, licking his fingers and sighing happily. Sherlock smiled and cut into his piece.

Love.

"I am so glad the week is over." John huffed wiping his mouth and hands. "This stomach flu has us busy enough with poor dehydrated sods, but on top of it there seems to be another wave of head lice sweeping the nurseries." John took a large gulp of his beer and winked. "Don't worry, I won't be bringing my work home."

"Should I run you under a hot shower just in case?" They were both smiling.

"Oh, yes, a good scrub sounds... nice." John was nudging him with his foot under the table and, incredibly, even now, Sherlock blushed. And got up to clear the table slightly embarrassed.

"That was lovely." John gestured towards the remains of the meal stretching his arms over his head and yawning. "Thank you for cooking." He got up and helped wrap up and put away the leftovers. "Do you want me to make you some camomile?"

"Hm, perhaps later. Let's have another beer." Sherlock was finishing with the dishes and washing his hands at the sink.

John grinned, leaned against his back and wrapped his arms around him. "Sounds so very good. I'm exhausted." He rubbed his face into Sherlock's back and huffed. "Missed you all day, love."

He turned around for a full embrace and a long deep kiss. 

Once they were snugly settled on the sofa under a blanket, beers in hand, Sherlock felt some of the disquiet return. He leaned more into John's side.

"Your day ok?" John knew, he always knew.

"Just a regular day at the lab. All on schedule with the two experiments in progress. Finished my evening reading."

"And outside of the lab?"

"I'm fine John." He sighed.

John smiled and kissed his cheek, maneuvering him to lie down. "Yes, you are. Now let me rub my cook's feet." He took off his socks and started with warm rubs.

As he pushed expertly into Sherlock's tight arches John spoke more about his week and plans for a friendly rugby match with friends from uni for Sunday morning.

"You know, you could come and watch."

Sherlock snorted. "Mud and cold, John."

"Sexy men and tight shorts, Sherlock." He was snickering and running one hand up Sherlock's leg.

"I'll stay in, thank you." He nudged John with his foot. "You may model the shorts prior to the match, though..."

Teasing touches slowly became gentle cuddles and long kisses. There was no rushing, none of the uncertainty of the early days.

It really was time.

"We could turn in early. I know you're exhausted. So... sleep."

"You don't mind?" John ran the fingertips of his hand over Sherlock's half-hard cock and nuzzled against his cheek.

Deep slow breaths.

"I was... I was thinking of something..."

John giggled softly. "All right. I'm sure I still have some spark in me."

"Oh, just sleeping John." Sherlock was getting up and taking a few steps towards the bedroom, unbuttoning and pushing his trousers and pants off.

John was blinking and rubbing one eye.

Deep, slow breaths. Turning partially back towards John.

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, then the top two buttons of the shirt. And simply pulled the thing over his head and dropped it to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this chapter when first published in October 2015 you may notice I've fixed some plot discrepancies in the meanwhile, no big rewrites.


	2. Chapter 2

Naked. Fully. Finally.

Naked and held. Not just held, Sherlock was coming awake wrapped in John. The solid weight of the arm he always held him with, the heat and sweat of his skin. Puffs of his breath. He felt immediate comfort, joy.

The weight of one ankle on his own. He had a... thing, for want of a better word, for John's ankles and was initially embarrassed about it. Of course John did not, as he eloquently put it, "give a flying fuck" about any sort of embarrassment that would prevent Sherlock manhandling him in bed. Something the habitually stubborn doctor not only allowed but truly seemed to enjoy.

And weekend mornings were not the often quick and efficient late night orgasms.

He was naked. And a bit less aroused than usual, slightly apprehensive actually. But there was also a novel thrill in this. Not knowing how John would react when he woke. And if the steady snores he felt rumble against his cheek were anything to go by there was some time before that happened.

Would John see how big a step this was for him? John usually saw much more than he expected.

He slid one hand over John's hip and brought his fingers to his own scarred chest.

Ugly. And over. For a while now. A fading sign of trauma far from this embrace, this morning, their life together. Their home.

He took a deep breath and felt one familiar ridge of skin. The phrase "a flying fuck" came to mind. Ridiculous. And so much like John. His nonchalant approach to life, home, food, rough sports and wet towels, unbrushed teeth and track marks that pocked Sherlock's arms and feet. Skin he kissed and sucked with no reserve. Incredible. Beautiful. The curls of unruly golden brown hair that covered his thighs and buttocks. The way he moaned when Sherlock licked into the most intimate crevices of his golden warm skin.

And the mirror. He had taken a look yesterday. Just a brief glance. He knew he was healthier and heavier as he'd had to buy several new pairs of trousers last month. But the pink glow of his previously pale, grayish skin, the bright love bites low on his neck, a fingernail scratch on his shoulder blade. The feeling of contentment.

Love bites.

Love.

That word. 

The trust behind it. The commitment.

John stirred and pulled him closer and onto his shoulder, hand down his back and just on his buttocks.

Their intimacy had settled into recognizable patterns that suited them both but now he felt ready for more. More touch, more exposure, more commitment.

"I trust you," he whispered into the ruffled blond hair. But he still had to utter the one important word.

And he must.

Three night ago he had a nightmare. The usual. Hands that reached to tear him apart, spittle on his face, humiliation and pain. But this time around the dream transformed. He was no longer alone. John was with him. And he was safe despite the threat.

He'd woken John with broken inhales and panicked kisses. And still somehow expecting a frustrated sigh and a back turned, Sherlock found himself with a cup of tea and belly rubs.

John was with him.

He inhaled and whispered.

"I do love you."


	3. Chapter 3

The day didn't start out well. And it only got progressively worse.

John was away for a seminar and he'd slept alone for the first time in a while. He slept more or less well but woke up early with a sense of unease and couldn't stay in bed on his own. He'd made tea and fed George, petting him a bit. But in the end he'd felt so anxious he had to dress and leave the flat.

And then disaster.

Coming into the lab before the rest of the team only meant he was the first to read the emails from their partner lab in Germany. There had been a miscalculation, a matter of difficulty in estimating a priori some of the segregation patterns...

The resulting set back meant at least four to six weeks delay in their schedule and nothing could be done to remedy the situation. He truly knew nothing could be done because he'd spent eleven hours straight looking into every option possible as his colleagues stayed clear of him.

He'd rewritten the schedule and drawn up a clear outline of the following weeks' work, as well as sent several scathing emails. Then he'd walked home in hope the brisk trek would tire him out and allow him to finally put the day behind him. It was work, just work, and not the first problematic study in his career, not the first project delay. Just work. And John was coming back tonight and he wanted to take a shower and cook a meal for the two of them. Everything was fine.

He'd missed him terribly.

Being alone again. Without John. It frightened him.

In fact it terrified him.

And that's how John found him two hours later on his knees scrubbing the already sparkling clean bathtub in a frenzy, the front of his shirt wet, sobbing quietly.

"Hey."

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked down failing to suppress another gasp. It was embarrassing, humiliating.

"Hey, come here." John reached down and took the sponge away. And then lowered himself next to him and took both of his wet hands and placed them against his chest. "Let me hold you now."

And he hid his face against John's neck, held onto him and cried.

"I'm sorry... I am so sorry..." He barely managed in a broken voice.

"Shhh. I'm here."

Strong arms held him tightly, rocking him, as John kissed into his curls.

It took a while until he calmed a bit.

John pushed him away to bring up his chin and look him in the eyes. He offered a hand towel.

"Tea? I could use a cup myself. The train was delayed."

He nodded wiping at his nose and eyes with the towel. He must have looked a mess.

"But let's get you out of these wet clothes first."

John helped him up and after a soft kiss lead him to their bedroom and the dresser they shared.

"John, I lost track of time... There were some issues at work..."

Another kiss.

"What about changing into pyjama bottoms and one of my warm jumpers?"

Soon he was wrapped up in flannel and wool, socks thicker than he'd usually wear and sleeves a bit too short.

"I must look ridiculous." He was weirdly comfortable with the situation, even if blushing slightly.

"Tea first, then we'll discuss fashion." Another long, soft kiss. "But in my opinion you look amazing." And with a small grin John pinched his buttocks.

As he drank his tea John set about preparing a quick pasta with pesto cream sauce and cherry tomatoes. Sherlock said a little about the whole segregation patterns mess. And they started the meal.

"So it is a delay?"

"Yes."

"But it can be salvaged?"

"Most of the work, yes. I've already redrawn plans and..." He felt ridiculous. "John... I overreacted."

"It happens." He pointed at Sherlock's plate with his fork. "Eat a bit more. I assume you skipped lunch."

In his humiliation and misery he responded abruptly. "I am not your patient any more, John."

John set his fork down and walked around the table to hold his hand.

"Nope, not my patient. But you are my boyfriend, you're upset, you're hungry and probably dehydrated." He squeezed his hand. "So, as your boyfriend, I am prescribing more pasta and possibly camomile and certainly an early retreat under the duvet."

He sighed and pulled John into an embrace. "I apologize. It's been a stressful day and I lost control and... we can watch a film if you prefer..."

"A film? No, no. I know you're eager to hear in minute detail about the fascinating electronic document management session I had yesterday." John winked at him. "That'll get the circulation going."

They did watch a film on John's laptop curled up in bed under the covers, legs entangled and steaming cups of camomile. John held him and scratched his back, gossiped about colleagues Sherlock had never met, made plans to go buy some new books, asked about his opinion on paper versus ebook, decided all showers would be postponed until next morning as he was "too comfortable to bother".

He was an idiot. And John still somehow loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of our domestic bliss & comfort fest dear readers... fluffy fluff fluff.


End file.
